Songs in Captivity
by graver
Summary: AU ficlet, a collection of drabbles. Gabriel/ Sylar /Elle. //"You will grow old, Elle, and learn it the hard way." Her father’s warning stays with her, more than her mother’s voice, the gentle sway of cradle, gone in a handswipe.//


AU ficlet. An experiment with drabbles. Sylar/Elle. _You'll learn it the hard way. _

[Spoilers for 3.08 (Villains), the rest is AU/speculation]

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_**Songs in Captivity**_

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1:_**  
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Gabriel reads a lot, for an average watchmaker. She traces the endless rows of books, whole racks filled with biographies and history books, frowns and demands the reason for this.

He pulls at his glasses, offended for some reason. Her pie cools on the table, cut open, with pink entrails exposed.

The topic never comes up again.

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2:

It is wrong, keeping him in the dark, in ways she can't even begin to list. Ignorance has always been the safest route and she has to, no matter what, keep up her defences.

"I don't know how this happened." It comes easily, too easily, she realizes.

There's also a shake of her petite shoulders and mouth that drops, just a little, lower.

Betrayal has a name, and it rolls softly, oh so easily over his lips. She always thought her name should be harder, rougher, struggling on its way to existence.

That's why he changes his.

There'll always be three Sylars for every Gabriel she could say.

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3:

He laughs. But that's not even funny. There are walls inbetween, protecting them, keeping them apart.

Elle smiles like she knows a secret. Her nails scrape at the glass.

"I can always turn you in." She dangles it, the possibility, like a mouse before a cat, and he will not – refuses to – take the bate.

He flashes a grim smirk.

There's still so much she doesn't understand, hasn't looked into yet.

"I hope you can."

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4:

He tastes blood, can't decide yet whether he likes it or not, the metallic tinge in his mouth.

"You knew this all along, didn't you?" There's a grunt, an ugly one, at it fits the occasion perfectly.

She zaps him again, can't take it, then appears above him – half-conscious on the pavement, like mother Theresa.

_An Ang–..._ he chokes on the word. She wrings and unclasps her hands, and that warmth might be blood from his ears.

"You never asked."

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5:

Sometimes he can't tell the difference between Gabriel and Sylar, which one was there first. He stares at the cracked, moldy ceiling, raining down on him in tiny particles, an eternity of it. One day it will collapse.

Behind her charged blue eyes, he still sees his doom, the whole spectrum of it. He regrets he only came to learn one.

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6:

She searches him, for a long time. Long past the ties of obligation. There are things that stick with you, she learns, long after the stench is gone.

Sometimes, she passes the dark alleyways just for sport, high heels clicking loud across the neighborhood, drawing in all kinds of scum out of their dens.

It's never him, she admits with some difficulty, but he hears his voice nevertheless, in the cascading volts of electricity on sleek asphalt.

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7:

"You will grow old, Elle, and learn it the hard way." Her father's warning stays with her, more than her mother's voice, the gentle sway of cradle, gone in a handswipe.

She never wanted anything, but it all burns down to one wish – never be this vulnerable again. She uses it to ride chances, people, with little commitment to yesterday's thunder. She likes to call it adaptability.

When he finally catches her, he – the Death, she recognizes his face at once.

She's not old yet, thus she hasn't learned. There's little regret in the past and even less for the future. A charge that started a heart can just as easily stop it.

In the face of her fate, she prepares to lose it all. One image stays.

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8:

He doesn't expect to see her, this soon, again. He expected a sign, at least – an ache in his joints, a tingle on his neck. She's just as unexpected as on the first day, having nothing but some courage and a plan in her head. It goes all wrong, of course.

He knows it's her when they capture her, drag her down to a floor with a number. He guesses it's five.

She deserves it, for sure. Regardless of this, there's no glee to his statement. He's _not _sorry. He hates her. Hates her so much he can't stop thinking about her.

Yes, it's an obsession. Has been from the beginning. (Her cell is second to last.)

At daylight he can defeat it, fight with himself, the urge, everything. In his dreams, there's just doors, doors, doors...

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9:

He kisses her, like he always wanted to, like she never let him. It burns, all over his body, in warm, pulsing waves, and he won't stop until she's long out of air. As her last sparkles fizz away, he withdraws, a possessive grin masking his face, convinced he's won at last.

Like a crystal rain, her laughter clinks against the glass, short warm puffs to his chagrin.

"You," she drawls faintly, arms still sprawled on the floor, "you should know better by now."

He touches her forehead, fascinated by the magic underneath it.

"Then teach me."

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10:

She lies a lot, he discovers, more than is necessary for her survival. It's also a reason it would never really – truthfully – work between them.

There will always be one of them on the other side of the glass. A spectacle. To be looked at.

She huffs to herself, bored out of her wits, curls her pinkie around her toe. The cells are empty, stripped of loose objects, weapons, shoes.

It's all way too familiar; he's seen this movie before, even played in it. He still keeps on watching, face too close to screen, eyes hurting while he does so.

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11:

She could always find his weaknesses, and if not, she made herself into one. She will betray him (again). She can't help it, it's in the nature of their commitment. Only this time will be much more painful, much harder to accept.

With one careful ear, she listens to the mayhem on the other side of the door, speculates their odds. "I can get us out alive."

She looks at his outstretched hand, aimed at the bulging hinges. There's force, power, and destruction behind his offer.

Truth and redemption.

Elle takes his hand, features softening. It's not the door that splinters.

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12:

She found out her whole life has been an experiment. A sketch for something bigger. So why does she get to try only once?

"You don't need that." He catches her and takes the gun. It's solid and hard, like trust. And like trust, it ends up shooting you in the back if you don't watch who you give it to.

He doubles the concern over her, after that small piece of news. Like it changes everything. She hopes, secretly, that the Company was all just a dream.

She'd promised herself never to forget.

A part of her wishes to.

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13:

Mornings cut to the core of things, leave them, Sylar and Elle, lying restless on the bleached white sheets.

It's clear how their lives, torn and mutilated, are now crossing, getting hopelessly tangled in each another. She can feel being tied down and the heaviness, his head on her shoulder. She isn't panicking.

Maybe he needs it. Maybe she needs it, too.

The world isn't ending.

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